


The Diogenes Club

by emma221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma221b/pseuds/emma221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been six months since Sherlock's death and John Watson is trying to rebuild his life, when a summons from Mycroft Holmes changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diogenes Club

It had been six months since Sherlock’s death, or Sherlock’s presumed death as John preferred to think of it. He had gone over the events of that day endlessly in his head, trying to piece together alternative explanations for what he had seen. He kept remembering Sherlock’s words at Baskerville, ‘You saw what you expected to see.’ Could this have been Sherlock’s most elaborate plan to date? The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that everything was not as it seemed; but if Sherlock wanted him to believe that he was dead, and to make the rest of the world believe that he was dead then John wasn’t going to disappoint him.

He was back at 221B Baker Street. He had moved out for a few weeks after Sherlock’s death unable to cope with being in a place with so many reminders of what had happened. In the end it was Mrs Hudson who had persuaded him to move back in. She had been devastated by Sherlock’s death, and had looked so frail and lonely when John had visited her, that he had reluctantly agreed to move back to keep her company. He had tried briefly to continue with cases after Sherlock’s death, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He had left Sherlock’s chemistry apparatus and some of his more bizarre possessions boxed up in his room. The skull was still on the mantlepiece, but the cluedo board had come down from the wall. Sherlock’s violin was in its case on top of his wardrobe, just waiting for him to come back and play it. The flat felt very quiet and was oddly tidy. These days the fridge was more likely to be filled with milk and beer than it was with severed heads and eyeballs.

Mrs Hudson had told him that the rent had been taken care of, but he had asked her to send back the money, and let him pay it himself. He didn’t want Mycroft Holmes’ guilt money. Unable to sit around the flat any longer, and with his bank balance approaching the critical he had gone back to doing GP locums to keep his hand in. The money was good. GPs prepared to work in the rougher parts of London were in short supply, and the out of hours service was always glad when he agreed to work for them. Sometimes he was tempted to take his old Browning pistol with him on some of his home visits, but with his new found respectability in mind, he left it instead safely in the desk drawer at 221B. Life without Sherlock was quieter and infinitely more dull. Boring, John thought with a smile, looking at the bullet holes in the smiley face on the wall. Fortunately his coping mechanisms were a little less destructive than Sherlock’s.

The summons from Mycroft came by text. John had sent away too many of his cars in the last six months to try that trick again. Grudgingly John agreed to meet him at the Diogenes club, but told him that he would find his own way there.

Mycroft was seated in his normal seat, reading the Times. A pot of tea, with two ready poured cups next to it were on a table beside him.

‘Ah John,’ he said without looking round as John walked in. How did the Holmes boys do that, was the ability to see behind them genetic? ‘Tea?’

‘Thank you,’ John said, sitting down. 

Unwilling to break the silence he sipped his tea and stared at Mycroft. After several minutes he said. ‘Was there a reason that you wanted to see me, Mycroft, or did you just want someone to drink tea with?’

‘I have a message for you.’ Mycroft paused, ‘From Sherlock.’

‘A message,’ John said, ‘You mean like a letter, or something in his will?’

‘No, I mean as in a message.’

John pulled his ‘I don’t know what’s going on’ face, then finally said, ‘He’s dead Mycroft, how can he be sending me a message.’

Mycroft raised an arched eyebrow at him and waited. When John showed no signs of cracking first he finally said, ‘Apart from you and I both know that he isn’t.’

John looked away, considered and then said slowly, ‘That is what Sherlock wanted me to believe.’

‘Correct, it was what he wanted you to believe, or rather what he needed the rest of the world to believe that you believed.’

‘So he’s alive.’ After all this time John couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

‘What do you think? Tell me, what did you see John, that day in front of St Bartholomew’s Hospital?’

‘I saw Sherlock jump off the roof, and I saw a body who looked like Sherlock on the ground, with serious head injuries. I then saw the body being taken into Barts, which incidentally doesn’t even have an A&E Department, did he really think that nobody would notice that? ‘

‘So what didn’t you see?’

‘I didn’t see Sherlock land on the ground, because he had deliberately positioned me behind the storage building. I didn’t see any attempt at resuscitation of a trauma arrest, I didn’t see a full team of orange jump suited HEMS boys rushing to the scene, and I didn’t see any attempt at spinal immobilisation before they lifted him onto the ambulance trolley that arrived much too quickly after he jumped.’

‘Very good. Tell me what else.’

‘I was deliberately knocked over as I tried to cross the road by that cyclist, I’m fairly sure I was given something, probably the HOUND drug, my confusion about events didn’t feel like either grief or concussion. I’ve seen friends die before, in Iraq, in Afghanistan. Danger usually sharpens my senses, flicks me into work mode, this time was different.

‘The body on the ground didn’t have a peripheral pulse, but that doesn’t necessarily mean death, just a low blood pressure. I couldn’t get to a central pulse, but I’m fairly sure that wouldn’t have been there either. Trauma deaths are rarely instantaneous, and the body on the ground was cold, too cold.’

‘Good,’ Mycroft looked impressed. ‘You have obviously learned a great deal from my brother in the last few years, Dr Watson. So can you tell me how he did it.’

John considered. ‘Jumped into something soft I would imagine, possibly inflatable bags in a rubbish lorry or similar? He could have coordinated that. Then a substitute body could have been positioned on the ground, probably taken from the same lorry, while the public view was blocked by accomplices on the ground, probably homeless network. That body was dressed in identical clothes to Sherlock and I would imagine had a latex mask on to make it look like him. Molly could have helped him to find a body, and to make the switch. You identified the body, so would have stated that the switched body, presumably the one buried in his grave, was his.’

‘What else - the blood around the head could have been his, taken some time ago and stored until it was needed. The banker who ran off to South America with the help of Janus cars did the same thing. Irene Adler faked her own death, so did Henry Fishguard, the cold case Sherlock was working on the day that Moriarty stole the Crown Jewels. Sherlock had this planned for months didn’t he? Probably ever since the day he met Moriarty and he told him that he would burn him. He had it all planned. He set the whole thing up. The time, the place, even where I would stand. He had the lorry prearranged and the homeless network were there dressed as medical staff and bystanders to prevent anyone else from realising what was happening.’ John shook his head. ‘Why on earth didn’t he tell me?’

‘You know why, John. The world had to believe that you thought that he was dead. And unfortunately, as Sherlock himself said, you’re not a good enough actor to convince them any other way.’

‘And you knew, you helped?’

‘Yes of course. John, do you really believe that I would be stupid enough to give Moriarty details about Sherlock’s life without his consent and without an ulterior motive? Sherlock planned this. He knew he would come to this, and he was ready to disappear. He is not a man who enjoyed fame and recognition. He wanted to become anonymous again, and he knew that Moriarty in the end would give him little choice.’

‘Was it Moriarty’s body?’ John asked.’Is that where it disappeared to, is that why there was never any mention of his death?’

‘No,’ Mycroft said. ‘His body mysteriously disappeared from the roof, which is another reason that you had to believe that Sherlock was dead, for your own protection. John, we have to face the fact that Moriarty may well have faked his own death also.’

‘He shot himself in the head!’ John said. A combination of cctv and the conversation recorded on Sherlock’s phone had led to MI5 being able to create a detailed and accurate account of the events on Barts roof. ‘How on earth do you fake shooting yourself in the head?’

‘It was fairly impressive, I have to say’, Mycroft said, ‘but a specially engineered blank and a blood bag at the back of the head, possibly secreted in the collar of his shirt, and activated at the same time as the supposed bullet left the gun, could have done it. It is not impossible, and it explains the lack of body. Logically it almost makes sense. Think John, why would Moriarty kill himself, just to prove a point and just to destroy Sherlock. A man that intelligent, who could steal the Crown Jewels, rob the Bank of England and break into Pentonville Prison all in one day? Faking his own death would have been easy compared to that.’

‘Smoke and mirrors,’ John mused, ‘It’s always about the illusion, isn't it.’ He considered. ‘So the assassins could still be a threat?’

‘I doubt it, after all this time, but Sherlock would prefer not to take any chances until he is satisfied that we have destroyed the last of Moriarty's web.’

‘And that’s what he’s been doing is it? Destroying Moriarty's web?’

‘Yes, in disguise of course.’

John permitted himself a moment of pure joy. Sherlock was alive. The game was back on.

‘Is that what he wants my help with?’

‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. There can be no direct communication between you of course, we have to assume that your emails and other communications are being tracked. I will give you an email address for a contact at GCHQ. They will then forward your emails via a string of addresses to Sherlock who will reply in the same way. You will refer to him using the pseudonym I will give you, and will ensure that it is not possible to discern from your emails any indication that you are aware who you are emailing. At some point, eventually we hope, Sherlock will be able to come out of hiding, but at present it is more useful to us that Moriarty and his creatures believe him to be dead.’

‘Fine. When do I start.’

‘Straight away if you agree. I have a folder of documents here for you. Interestingly this is right up your street. It involves a medical centre run for asylum seekers, which runs a side line in obtaining visas for illegal immigrants. We want you to take up a post there on the legitimate side of the business, and see what you can dig up.’

He handed John a folder of documents. ‘You start a week on Monday, that should give you ample time to rearrange any other commitments that you may have. The email contact details for Sherlock are in the folder.’ He stood up, and shook John’s hand. ‘Good Luck, John.’

No sorry for putting you through hell for the last six months, no thank you for saving my brother’s life on numerous occasions thought John as he was whisked back to Baker Street in considerable more comfort than his journey there. Still, Sherlock was alive, and that was what mattered, and in time he would be back in Baker Street where he belonged.


End file.
